


No Darkness but Ignorance

by Mountainana



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 16:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18450710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mountainana/pseuds/Mountainana
Summary: Jack has a recurring nightmare.





	No Darkness but Ignorance

**Author's Note:**

> From the Flash fic prompt of the same name.  
> This is my first fiction in this WONDERFUL fandom and my first on Ao3. I am so intimidated by the talent of all you incredible writers. I have been wanting to write something for the longest time, and finally an inspiration struck me with this title. Thanks to all who do so much here. I would love comments (I think...), even constructive criticism - maybe as a private message, though.

It was that dream again.

Jack was stumbling through dead roots and parched overgrowth. He had that feeling, common in dreams, when you know something to be true even though nothing is stated outright - he knew he was in a walled garden, and that it had once been beautiful. It was not a garden of his making, but he found himself here, nonetheless.

In his dream he had thought he’d found a sprinkling of small red flowers. It was the only color in this forsaken place, and he was exhausted from trying to work the hard, dry land. He had no tools sufficient for the task, so he worked bare-handed, pulling and digging, trying to free those tiny lowers from the dry weeds and thorns. But when he had finally cleared a small space, he saw that the sprinkling of flowers were drops of blood. His hands were covered with it, and Jack knew that it wasn’t just his blood. In a sudden panic he would run, trying to find the door to the garden, tripping over roots and getting caught by thorns Then he would see that the dead roots were bones, and the thorns were hands grabbing at his legs. 

And the blood. He was ankle deep in it, beating on the locked door that had him trapped in this hell that mocked the garden it had once been. He knew Rosie was on the other side of the wall; she was calling him to come out and join her. She had no idea of the bones and hands and blood that held Jack fast in his walled prison. 

“Just use the key, Jack! Turn the key and open the door. I’m right here waiting.”

But he didn’t have the key. 

When he first started having the dream, he would wake up feeling the panic of being trapped, but after years of the both of them stumbling in their darkness, the panic gave way to resignation. They stopped looking for the key altoghether.

Jack carried on with what might be called a reasonable facsimile of life. He had his house, even though Rosie had long ago left it, and his garden. He had his work, and while he couldn’t say it brought him happiness, he was good at it. He found some measure of comfort and satisfaction in following his routines and methods. And when the dreams threatened his fragile hold on controlling his life, he held on to his methodical ways even tighter. 

Then, one day, a riot of color burst into the black and white world of Jack Robinson. One Phryne Fisher showed up out of nowhere and latched onto his crime scene like she owned it. She questioned (and frustrated) him at every turn. She sashayed blithely into danger and walked out apparently unscathed - leaving confusion and destruction in her wake. Yet, somehow, she was instrumental in solving the crime. 

When Jack was finally able to go back home, he was unsettled and exhausted. He poured himself a whiskey and tried reading for a while, but soon fell into a restless sleep. It wasn’t long before he found himself back in the walled garden. 

Pulling.

Digging.

Running.

Trapped again, as always.

Then he hears it: A key in the old lock. It turns, with some difficulty, and the door is pushed open.

Miss Fisher!

She looks into the desolation and, without a hint of hesitation steps right in. Horrified, Jack holds up a hand.

“Stop, Miss Fisher you can’t come in here!”

Oh, he is so tired. 

She just looks at him, smiles as she pulls a handkerchief from her purse and starts to clean his bloodied hands.

“No!” He tries to pull away. “This is no place for you!” 

She pauses, but doesn’t let him go.

The sadness and exhaustion are winning.

“Too many weeds...too many...hands.”

He hangs his head. “So much blood...”

She dips her head to catch and hold his eyes. And, so gently, she begins to clean his hands again.

“Lucky for you, I’m wearing gloves.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was also inspired by Francis Hodgson Burnette's The Secret Garden (a favorite of mine that I still read). It was published in 1911, and with Jack's love of gardening and books, I can imagine him gifting it to a niece and reading it before it was wrapped.


End file.
